


what manner of man ought i to be

by sixbeforelunch



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Caretaking, Gen, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixbeforelunch/pseuds/sixbeforelunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is a dutiful son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what manner of man ought i to be

"So it's over?"

"It's over."

The TV was a low murmur in the background.

"Dare I ask how."

Michael set a glass of iced tea down on the coffee table, just in reach of Madeline's good arm.

"Let's just say that some people would go a long way to have Michael Westen owe them a favor," Sam said. "We had to kick down a few doors in the beginning, and then there was a...thing with some bikers, but it didn't take long once we got the word out. They brought him to us tied up with a pretty bow and everything."

"I don't remember a bow." Fiona was leaning against the dining room table, one ankle crossed neatly over the other.

"Handcuffs. Bow. Same difference."

Madeline narrowed her eyes. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"We had a long conversation about making better life choices," Sam said, when it became clear that Michael wasn't feeling chatty.

"Dangling upside down from a balcony twenty stories above the concrete really helps you to reevaluate things," Fiona added. "Though I still say it was the C4 that really sold it."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Madeline grunted and took a drag of her cigarette. "So not dead."

"No, we let him go when it became clear that he was going to give serious thought to our recommendation that robbing little old--" Madeline fixed Sam with a glare. "--that robbing stately older women might be more stressful than it's worth."

"And then we planted an illegal gun on him and got him arrested. He's on parole with a prior conviction for armed robbery, so he'll have a good long time to stare at concrete walls and really think about what we said." Fiona uncrossed and recrossed her ankles. "It's over. He can't ever get to you again."

"Does this guy that you terrorized and framed have a name?"

"Howard Williams," Michael said.

"In his spare time he likes dog fights and hitting his girlfriend," Sam added. "Don't spare a second worrying about him, Maddie. He's a thoroughly bad guy."

"I'm not worried," she snapped. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept well in days. I can hardly get off of the couch. I've been living off of canned soup and yogurt. I haven't showered or washed my hair in a week. This place is a mess. I'm sick to death of daytime TV and Women's Day. No, Sam, I'm not _worried_ about him, and I wouldn't be even if you had dropped him or blown him up or whatever, but it would have been nice if at some point in between running around chasing this guy someone had come over and washed the dishes."

Fiona and Sam shared a guilty glance.

"Oh, never mind," Madeline said, more softly. "You all have your strengths, but you're all too worried about tracking down bad guys and blowing things up or stopping things from blowing up or whatever it is you people do to think about anything as mundane as sweeping a kitchen floor."

"You're right," Michael said, cutting through the heavy silence. "I'm sorry. I was angry, and I got so caught up in punishing this guy that I didn't stop to think about what you needed."

Madeline leaned back against the couch, eyes closed. "I guess there are worse things than having a son who tears apart a city to find the man who robbed you."

Sam clapped his hands together. "Look, why don't we--"

Michael cut him off with a quick shake of his head. "You guys get going," he said. "I'm going to stay here tonight."

"You sure, Mikey?"

"I'm sure. Thanks for your help."

Sam and Fiona shared another look. Fiona shrugged and crossed the room to give Madeline a careful hug. "Feel better, okay?"

"Thank you," Madeline whispered.

Sam shot a backward glance at Mike as they walked out the door.

Madeline had worn herself out with her speech. She turned the TV up without another word and settled down onto her pillow. Michael walked the house, changing the sheets, doing a sink full of dishes, sweeping, dusting, and opening windows to air out the house. The stale smell of cigarette smoke wasn't going anywhere, but it at least cleared out some of the lingering scent of ill-health and garbage that hadn't been taken out in too many days.

When he was finished, Madeline was asleep on the couch. Even in sleep, her face was slightly creased in pain. The bruises that mottled her jaw were just now fading to a sickly yellow-green, an improvement over the livid blue and purple marks that he had seen when he first went to get her at the hospital. Her arm was curled up against her chest, not broken but badly bruised and too tender to be of any use until it healed. He hadn't seen them, but he knew there were more injuries: bruises down one side of her body, along with two cracked ribs and a bruised kidney.

He knew what it was for every breath to hurt, to pee and see blood. When he had taken out his knife and threatened to cut the rope and drop Williams to the ground, his rage hadn't been part of any act, and for a split second, he honestly hadn't been sure he wouldn't send a man plummeting to his death because no one hurt Michael Westen's mother and got away with it.

No one except dad. Dad had slapped, punched, and kicked her. She was missing a back tooth from the time Frank slammed her head into the washing machine. She didn't think he knew. He couldn't deny that some of the blows he's landed on Williams had been intended for a dead man.

Frank Westen, in the ground close to a decade and still looming over every interaction he had with his mother.

The pantry was in a sad state, so he took the Charger to the store. He found an unused grill pan tucked in the back of a cabinet, and was patting the steak dry and rubbing it with salt and garlic powder and paprika when he heard Madeline shuffling through the living room.

"Michael?"

"In here, Mom."

"What are you making?"

"Steak with green beans and wild rice."

"That sounds good."

"Better than canned soup."

She lit a cigarette. "I appreciate you Michale. But sometimes..."

"I know. But I am what I am, Mom." He finished wrapping the steak in plastic wrap.

"Your father used to say that, usually when he was giving me some half-hearted apology."

Michael, face safely hidden by the refrigerator door, flinched. He stood up and closed the door. "Can we not talk about Dad right now. Please?"

Madeline blew out a long stream of smoke. "Sure."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Listen, my friend Donna brought over a shower chair. Put it in the tub for me, will you? If I have to go one more day smelling like antiseptic and BO, I'm going to scream."

"Are you sure that's safe?"

"Are you going to give me a sponge bath instead?"

"Shower chair it is," Michael said quickly, deciding not to remind her that he had offered--twice--to get her a nurse.

He waited outside of the bathroom door until he heard the water come on. then took another quick walk through the house while she showered, doing a perimeter check just to calm his nerves. The wild rice was half way to being done when he went back inside, and the thinly sliced onion caramelizing on the back burner was turning a nice shade of golden brown. Only a lifetime of learning how to keep sharp objects under control kept him from dropping the knife he was using to prepare the green beans when he heard a loud thump.

"Mom!" He ran to the bathroom and knocked on the door. "Mom? You okay?"

He heard her curse.

"I'm going to--" He grimaced. "I'm going to come on, okay?"

She was, fortunately, wearing a bathrobe when he entered, bent over the sink. "I'm fine, Michael. I knocked over the soap dish is all."

"What are you doing?"

"I am trying to wash my hair. Which is almost impossible to do one-handed." She was struggling with the shampoo cap. He took the bottle out of her hand.

"Why didn't you do this in the shower."

"I couldn't hold the sprayer behind my head. I couldn't--" Her voice broke and she cursed again, rubbing her good hand over her face.

"It's okay. Don't cry. Here. I'll help you."

He helped her back over the edge of the tub and into the shower chair, and grabbed a towel, rolling it up and putting it behind her neck for support. She had a detachable sprayer head in the shower. The water was warm, warmer than he would have liked it for himself, but she nodded when he asked about the temperature. He kept the water away from her face, working it into her short hair.

He had done this once before, in England, for an old woman whose regular nurse had broken her foot in a carefully-arranged freak shopping cart accident. Her dementia had made it easy for him to manipulate her. He had taken good care of her, right up until she gave him what he needed to draw out her son and send him to one of the nastier Russian prisons.

"Close your eyes, okay Mom?"

In England, the woman's hair had been long, heavily gray, but still retaining some of the dark brown of youth. It had taken him a long time to work out the tangles. She had told him that he was the best nurse she'd ever had.

His mother's hair was short, but he went slowly, careful not to jar her head or get shampoo in her eyes. He soaked the back of her robe when he rinsed her hair. When he stood up to put the shower sprayer back, she was watching him.

"Sorry," he said. "About the robe."

"It's fine. Help me out of here."

She braced herself on him as he helped her back out of the tub, not letting go until he was certain she was steady on her feet. There were a lot of hard surfaces in bathrooms. They were a head wound waiting to happen. He knew this very well. (High school had taught him a lot of things, but try to ambush your enemy into the bathroom had been maybe the most useful.)

He went back to the kitchen while she got changed. By the time she came back out, dressed in a truly hideous green and red house dress, the steak was sizzling on the grill pan and the beans were bright green. He cut her steak for her and set it down in front of her along with a glass of iced tea and a bottle of pain killers. He grabbed a beer for himself.

"It's grass-fed rib-eye," he said when she reached for her cigarettes. "Will you at least taste it first?"

Madeline snorted, but left the cigarettes where they were. Michael, still exhausted from a week of anger and plotting and keeping himself under control when all he wanted to do was go out and shoot every two-bit thief who wasn't content to rob someone in a mall parking lot without beating them senseless in the bargain, sipped his beer and let himself forget everything except the strong taste of good beef.

"Oh," he said, after a minute. "I almost forgot." He took a ring from his pocket. "The money was long gone, but I found the ring he stole from you."

Michael slid it across the table. Madeline reached out and put it on.

She examined it in the fading, late-afternoon light. "You're a better man than you think you are, Michael," she said.

Michael smiled without warmth. "I wish that were true, Mom. I really do."

Madeline met his eyes over the table, but for once was content to let it alone. They ate their dinner in silence.


End file.
